The wallpaper sets my teeth on edge. It clings to the wall like ill fitting skin and it breathes, the sickly looking daffodils heaving as I stumble down the corridor, which groans to and fro like a sailing ship or the belly of a restless god. Each shallow breath I take paints my throat with the smell of ozone and mildew, and the carpet beneath my feet is yielding and warm. It sucks at my feet like wet sand.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I fling my hand out to grasp at the slick bronze handle of the friendly looking door but it buckles under my fingers like wet cardboard and I tear through it, unable to stop my momentum. For a sickening moment I plummet, breath hitching as the world falls away and into a vertical corridor of bathroom tiles that glint like molars as my heart crawls up towards my throat. I scramble desperately at the smooth walls, limbs pinwheeling and heart contracting feverishly before I hit the ground with a horrible crunch and sit up in bed.

Clammy and trembling, my head reels and I stabilise myself with one hand on the wall as I get my bearings. My heart stops racing and the world stops tilting long enough for me to look around. I am in a bed with a painted metal bed-frame, the duvet is cream and lumpy and embroidered with posies and peonies in faded reds and pinks. It prickles against my skin but I am too relieved to care. I kick off the covers and swing my legs over to the carpet, standing up, pulse finally steady.

The carpet sucks at my feet like wet sand.